Марсианские хроники

           MarsstoodstillasthemajesticvesselsoftheMartiansdrewaroundandhesitatedoverhim.

           "Earthman,"avoicecalledfromahighseatsomewhere.Asilverinemaskmoved.Ruby-rimmedlipsglitteredwiththewords.

           "Ididn’tdoanything!"Samlookedatallthefaces,onehundredinall,thatsurroundedhim.Thereweren’tmanyMartiansleftonMars—onehundred,onehundredandfifty,alltold.Andmostofthemwereherenow,onthedeadseas,intheirresurrectedships,bytheirdeadchesscities,oneofwhichhadjustfallenlikesomefragilevasehitbyapebble.Thesilverinemasksglinted.

           "Itwasallamistake,"hepleaded,standingoutofhisship,hiswifeslumpedbehindhiminthedeepsofthehold,likeadeadwoman."IcametoMarslikeanyhonestenterprisingbusinessman.ItooksomesurplusmaterialfromarocketthatcrashedandIbuiltmethefinestlittlestandyoueversawrightthereonthatlandbythecrossroads—youknowwhereitis.You’vegottoadmitit’sagoodjobofbuilding."Samlaughed,staringaround."AndthatMartian—Iknowhewasafriendofyours—came.Hisdeathwasanaccident,Iassureyou.AllIwantedtodowashaveahot-dogstand,theonlyoneonMars,thefirstandmostimportantone.Youunderstandhowitis?Iwasgoingtoservethebestdarnedhotdogsthere,withchiliandonionsandorangejuice."

           Thesilvermasksdidnotmove.Theyburnedinthemoonlight.YelloweyesshoneuponSam.Hefelthisstomachclenchin,wither,becomearock.Hethrewhisguninthesand.

           "Igiveup."